Tom Reep cradles a horseshoe shrimp, the oldest living species on earth, at a small pond close to the Wave.

Tom Reep cradles a horseshoe shrimp, the oldest living species on earth, at a small pond close to the Wave.

Photo: Jeff Greenwald, Special To The Chronicle

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The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

Photo: Jeff Greenwald, Special To The Chronicle

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The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

Photo: Jeff Greenwald, Special To The Chronicle

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The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

The Wave at Vermilion Cliffs Monument

Photo: Jeff Greenwald, Special To The Chronicle

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Visiting Arizona's remote, gorgeous Wave

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The afternoon before visiting the Wave, we watched a madman stagger out of the desert.

My friends and I were hiking back from Buckskin Gulch, part of the surreal Vermillion Cliffs National Monument on the Utah/Arizona border. Our permit for the Wave was for the next day - but this poor soul had just been out there. He'd lost his way coming back. His eyes were wild, and his broad-brimmed hat askew.

"I went up the wrong wash," he gasped, visibly calmed as we showed him the path back to the parking lot. "There's no trail. ... The maps they give you are !@$#% worthless. ... I've been lost for an hour and a half."

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At least he didn't die out there. Some people do. The Wave may be one of the most visually stunning, ardently photographed features in the Southwest desert, but the Bureau of Land Management doesn't make it easy to find (or to find your way back).

"People come to the Wave and expect to have that 'National Park' experience," says BLM Monument Manager Kevin Wright, who administers the area from his office in St. George, Utah. "But there's no formal trail out there. Or potable water. And in the summer, it gets over 100 degrees."

All of which, of course, is part of the appeal.

Solid dunes

The Wave is a tangible hallucination, a convoluted corridor of multicolored, brilliantly striped sandstone. Its history dates back to Pangaea: the single, giant continent that once covered the Earth.

Back then, about 170 million years ago, the North American and African plates were splitting at the hem, forming the Atlantic Ocean. But dinosaurs roamed freely across the enormous, sandy desert that covered the Southwest: land we now call Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado.

"The dunes marched along, leaving layer after layer," says Ron Blakey, co-author of "Ancient Landscapes of the Colorado Plateau." "The dune that makes up the Wave may have thousands of layers in it - and it's part of other dunes that also have thousands of layers. So the cross-bedding we see today may have billions of layers - each one representing the advance of a sand dune."

For more than 100 million years those dunes were buried miles underground, where they hardened into a layer of rock called Navajo Sandstone. Slowly, those layers were uplifted - until, a mere 4 million to 5 million years ago, they breached through the ground. Water and minerals seeped into the now exposed sandstone; the wind sculpted its surface.

Over many millennia it was painted and carved, creating the fantastic shapes and rainbow-hued stripes (called Liesegang bands) that now enliven desktop screen savers everywhere.

Lottery-like odds

The Wave sneaked onto every landscape photographer's bucket list in 2004, when it was featured in a German documentary called "Faszination Natur - Seven Seasons." Today, about a third of the visitors are from Europe (with a recent influx from China and Japan).

But seeing the Wave in situ requires luck and planning. The BLM, which administers Vermillion Cliffs, uses a strict permit system to protect the fragile area from overuse. Only 20 people are allowed in each day. Ten permits are issued online, four months in advance; the rest are awarded by lottery at the National Monument office in Kanab, Utah, at 8:30 a.m. (the permits, $7, are valid the following day). During high season, March-November, as many as 120 hopefuls show up each day. All but 10 will leave disappointed.

Bribes don't work.

Tom Reep, 32, is a nine-year Army veteran who served two tours in Iraq. He's currently the point man for Wave permit requests. Reep has an open flame tattooed on his arm, and a deep affinity for the desert. But he has little patience for people trying to buy their way into the Wave.

"The monetary record is $2,000," Reep remarks as he, Wright and my small group hike from the Wire Pass parking area and trailhead toward the Wave. "I've even had a lady on the phone ask, 'Well, what if I take you to dinner and a movie, and we'll see what happens afterward?' "

Kevin Wright has also turned down multiple requests - from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition to representatives of the Occupy movement (who wanted to hold a candlelight vigil at the Wave).

"Even National Geographic had to get a permit," he says reverently. "We do give permission for research: science in the public interest. Otherwise, we never make an exception. I can't think of a single case."

"Come on," I nudge. "Not even the president?"

"If the president wants a permit," Wright pronounces dryly, "he will get one."

Best of show

We cover about 3 unmarked miles, meandering through a landscape pocked with vivid red and orange bumps and valleys - like acne writ large. The land is sparse, but not bare; we pass sagebrush, twisted junipers and hills bristling with Indian rice grass.

After 90 minutes of rugged walking, a short, sandy hill leads us up to the Wave itself. It's a weird feeling, to be approaching a rock formation with the same anticipation one might feel at Angkor, or the Taj Mahal.

"This whole area is amazing," I remark. "Will I even know the Wave when I see it?"

"You'll know it," Wright says.

He's right, of course. So much of the Southwest is wild and magical that it's hard to think "Best of Show." But the Wave is a contender. I stare at the layers of whorled stone, trying to come up with a good visual metaphor. The sandstone ribbons range in color from beet to pumpkin, cayenne to saffron. Farsi finger painting? Tutti-frutti taffy? A stretched-out sand mandala? One friend comes even closer: "Stacked Pringles."

We pass between the undulating Wave walls. It's only 10 a.m., and the sun hasn't penetrated the interior; it's cool and mysterious in the "tube." After a few yards, the wall opens up to our left. A dozen other visitors are sitting on a saddle above us, capturing the postcard view of the Wave. They wait gamely as we pass through their viewfinders.

"We'll come back later," Reep says. "There's lots to see."

Our little group continues walking, emerging from the Wave onto an exposed outcrop. The view beyond is alien, fantastic, a scene from Dr. Seuss. Reep leads us on a long loop behind the Wave, pointing out some of the area's lesser-known dreamscapes.

We stop at a viewpoint over the Second Wave; to the east stands a group of tall, cauliflower-topped hoodoos called Brain Rocks. A 200-foot scramble up to a harrowing ledge ("Don't look to your left ... or to your right," Reep says, grinning) leads to Top Rock, our lunch spot: a wind-carved arch with a staggering view across the landscape below.

My favorite site, though, is a simple pool of rainwater, filling a sandstone dip just a few steps from the Wave itself. Reep reaches into the water, and shows us a black creature that looks like a fat tadpole.

"A horseshoe shrimp," he explains. "The oldest living species on earth."

Exquisitely adapted, her eggs can survive up to 20 years between rains.

At about 2:30, Tom and Kevin head back to their truck. The other visitors have left, too. I'm left blissfully alone with a few good friends, the Wave and the oldest shrimp on Earth. Good company.

Lethal wrong turn

My fantasy is to head toward our car at dusk, but the group's greater wisdom prevails. We start back at 4:30 p.m. It's a good thing; the BLM's route-finding map has you navigate using a half-dozen small photographs of the local landmarks you see (or don't) around you. It's hard enough to follow the path in the late afternoon; it would be nearly impossible in the dark. Even now, we almost take a wrong turn up what seems to be a trail, but is only a wash between two tall hoodoos.

Getting lost here would be easy - and possibly fatal, as it was for an unlucky exchange student in 2011. He'd arrived at sunrise, and stayed until sunset. Dehydrated and disoriented, he took a wrong turn toward Buckskin Gulch - and fell into a slot canyon.

With a collective sigh of relief, we find our way out. As the dark, weird shapes of the buttes loom against the moonlit sky, the desert seems eternal. But even that view - like the false trail that snaked off into the sagebrush - is an illusion. The Earth is a living planet. Even the Wave, one day, will collapse.

"This landscape is ever-evolving," author Ron Blakey points out. "The Wave you can touch with your hand is probably less than 1,000 years old. It's constantly changing, constantly eroding, grain by grain, layer by layer. What you see today is not going to be there 5,000 years from now."

If you go

Getting there

The Wave is in the Coyote Buttes North area of the Paria Canyon-Vermillion Cliffs National Monument. The Wire Pass trailhead is a 40-minute drive from Kanab, Utah (and about the same distance from Page, Ariz.). Closest national airports and car rental agencies are in Salt Lake City and Las Vegas.

Where to stay

We stayed in Kanab, at the much-loved Purple Sage Inn (54 S. Main St., Kanab, (435) 644-5377, www.purplesageinn.com). Vintage bed and breakfast, allegedly where author Zane Grey worked on "Riders of the Purple Sage". Breakfast is to die for. (Kanab also has the usual spectrum

of Best Westerns and

Holiday Inns; Page,

less so.)

Where to eat

Rocking V Café (97 W. Center St., Kanab, (435) 644-8001, rockingvcafe.com) is an unexpectedly terrific restaurant, but you'll probably need reservations for dinner. We tried about five dishes between us, all excellent. There's some pretty cool artwork on the walls, and beautiful cards for sale.

What to do

For the Wave, you'll want to get permits for Coyote Buttes North either far in advance from the Bureau of Land Management online ( www.blm.gov/az/paria/index.cfm?usearea=CB) or at 8:30 the morning before at the visitors center in Kanab. There are only 10 permits available in Kanab, and selection is by lottery. If you have extra time (or don't get your permit), the hike through Buckskin Gulch into Pariah Canyon (also from the Wire Pass Trailhead) is spectacular as well. Expect deep puddles, and check the weather - flash floods in slot canyons can be deadly.